Page 32 of My Wedding Mafia Style

The room goes quiet. For once, even Isabella says nothing. Luca’s gaze holds mine. Then he lifts my hand and presses a slow kiss to my knuckles. My brain, already operating on limited staff, shuts down completely.

“Then let’s find out,” he says.

Bianca makes a tiny squealing sound behind us.

Adriana’s voice comes from somewhere in the hallway. “I heard that.”

Isabella calls back, “You were meant to.”

And Luca leads me out of the room, toward Nonna, toward the next impossible thing, while I walk beside him in an emerald dress that apparently has expectations.

Unfortunately, I am beginning to have a few of my own.

Chapter 10

Luca

The emerald dress is a problem. I knew it would be the moment Bianca appeared at the top of the stairs and announced she had plans for Lucy. My sister’s plans are rarely subtle and never harmless. Still, I underestimated the damage one dress could do.

Lucy walks beside me now with her fingers curled around mine, her steps careful as the yacht moves beneath us. The fabric flows on her body, deep green against the warm glow of the corridor lights, making her hair look richer, her eyes brighter, her mouth more tempting than it was already. Which is inconvenient, because I am still thinking about that mouth.

About the kiss. The second kiss. The one I initiated. The one that had nothing to do with her ex, nothing to do withmy family, nothing to do with the first impulsive moment that put her in my lap and set this entire evening on fire.

That kiss was mine.

I am not proud of the possessive thought. I am also not denying it.

Beside me, Lucy smooths one hand over her dress for the third time in ten steps. “I can feel you looking at me.”

“Good.”

Her eyes cut to mine. “You’re not even going to pretend you weren’t?”

“No.”

“That should be illegal.”

“Being honest?”

“Looking like that while being honest.”

My mouth curves. “You have very specific laws.”

“I am drafting new ones as this night progresses.”

Ahead of us, the corridor opens into the main salon, where warm light spills across polished wood, pale upholstery, and wide dark windows reflecting the night sea. The yacht has settled into a smooth rhythm now, the engines steady beneath us, the Atlantic opening beyond the canal as we leave the coast behind.

Lucy does not know the geography well enough to understand how far we have already gone. She knows enough to be suspicious. That, I suspect, is her natural state.

She slows as we approach the salon. “Before we go in there, I feel the need to ask a question.”

“Only one?”

“I am starting with one.”

“Very efficient.”

“Is yacht Nonna more dangerous than reception Nonna?”